


so quite new a thing

by rory_the_dragon



Series: and possibly i like the thrill (college au) [1]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: (later) - Freeform, Alternate Universe - College/University, Definitely Not A Virgin Freddie, Friends With Benefits, I'm not picky, M/M, Possibly even the Sixties, Virgin Brian, set in the seventies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-13
Updated: 2019-03-13
Packaged: 2019-11-16 09:01:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18091388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rory_the_dragon/pseuds/rory_the_dragon
Summary: Finding a passed-out Freddie Mercury on one’s sofa is surely just part of the Imperial College experience at this point.





	so quite new a thing

 

It’s probably the cold that wakes Brian up again for the second time that night.

The first time has been closer to midnight. He hadn’t checked the clock on his nightstand, damn cheap thing had probably died in the night anyway, but he had known it was late because when Roger had left the flat earlier that evening he’d been in heeled boots and high spirits which always meant he wasn’t coming home a) before midnight and b) alone. And by the sounds that had woken Brian - stumbling, crashing, giggling - Roger had achieved the night off from studying essays and the other vicious bores that university life seemed keen to throw at him that he had wanted.

(He’d asked Brian to go with him, whining at his bedroom door that he _hated_ going out alone and Brian _never_ _did anything fun_ , but an unwritten paper due next week and the trouble-making glint in Roger’s eye had made him decline. He’d regretted it three miserable paragraphs into his report but by that time Roger could have been anywhere between a pub in Kensington and an alley in Brixton so there was nothing to do but get on with it and remind himself that he actually _did_ have an abiding love for the cosmos and the wonders they held.)

But the second time he wakes, it’s silent in their tiny two-bed so, logically, the cold.

He’s also, unfortunately, bursting for a piss. He wrestles with his body for two minutes but loses the battle pretty quickly and has to force himself out of sleep and into the somehow even colder air of the living room with all the haste he can muster at a time closer to dawn than anything else.

It’s a testament to the cold, the single-minded focus of his body, and the still darkness of the small hours, that he doesn’t notice the body sprawled across their sofa until he’s on his way back. Brian startles, loud enough that the body moves, which admittedly alleviates his first sleep-addled concern that he’s been left to deal with Roger’s intoxicated corpse but only intensifies his alarm when he realises that the, although very much living, person on his sofa is also decidedly Not Roger.

“S’ry, darling, did I frighten you?” comes a muffled voice from the dimness and Brian’s frantic heart settles a little in his chest as he recognises it.

“Freddie?” His voice sounds too loud in the cold, quiet air.

“S’me,” Freddie, wayward friend of Roger and accomplice in many drunken stories, confirms by pushing himself up into a patch of moonlight streaming in from the window. It allows Brian to take him in, all smudged eyeliner and rumpled hair - whether from clubbing or from his prior face-down position on their sofa, Brian can’t tell. “Rog said it’d be okay if I stayed the night?”

Last term there had been a solid period of nearly two weeks where Freddie had slept on Brian and Roger’s sofa every night, the other boy only disappearing once Brian had raised concerns about whether Freddie actually _did_ have a place to live, so he’s not sure why Freddie is looking at him as if Brian’s about to throw him out. Finding a passed-out Freddie Mercury on one’s sofa is surely just part of the Imperial College experience at this point.

“Oh yeah,” Brian nods anyway, rubs a hand up his bare arm as goosebumps begin to rise on his skin. “Yeah, sure, ‘course. You guys have fun?”

“Well, Roger was in a simply _hideous_ mood that you made him go out alone, you mean old thing, but after I bought him a gin and tonic or three he perked up again-“

Freddie is still wearing his shoes, Brian notices, clunky white heels that appear strapped on with an intricate buckle, but if he ever had a jacket he’s lost it. Instead Freddie is in what must be the tightest item of clothing Brian’s ever seen a human being wriggle into, black material that shimmers in the moonlight and cuts a deep v over Freddie’s chest. Absolutely gorgeous and hideously impractical.

Roger must have failed to provide Freddie with a blanket. Probably because they don’t have one spare, and because last time Freddie had stayed over it had been summer and the flat had been so unbearably hot that the two of them must have forgotten in their loud drunken stumblings home that it’s now November and one of Freddie’s little black numbers isn’t going to cut it for warmth.

If it was cold under Brian’s duvet he can hardly imagine what it’d be like to sleep out here. He can already feel the cold sinking into his bare feet as he stands listening to Freddie, and tries to hide a yawn as he thinks about his bed waiting in the other room.

He fails. Freddie’s quick eyes catch the movement and the loose gestures that had unwound as he’d been telling his story suddenly rein back in again as his face turns chiding. “I’m keeping you awake. Go to sleep, dear. I’m sure Roger will tell you all you missed tomorrow.”

“What about you?” The words tumble out before Brian’s self-preservation instinct has time to wake up and kick in.

Freddie’s smile turns in the light of a passing car, kind to mischievous in a blink. “I _was_ asleep before someone’s big feet woke me up.”

Brian huffs on a laugh. “My feet are the exact right size for my proportions.”

“Well, that’s good to know.” The mischief, if anything, heightens, and the drawl of Freddie’s low voice tightens around Brian’s throat.

It’s probably that which makes him say “You should come in,” instead of the ‘Goodnight’ he’d been planning on saying, but he’s not exactly sure. His voice seems to have gone completely rogue on him.

Freddie cocks his head at him and Brian hastens to add, “I can’t leave you out here without a blanket. It’s not much warmer in my room but there’s a duvet, at least. Body heat.” He adds the last as an afterthought then closes his eyes in mortification.

When he opens them again, Freddie is still looking at him curiously, quietly, and Brian’s about to add something _else_ to make this whole situation even more painful than he already has when Freddie says, “Alright.”

“Alright?”

Freddie gathers himself off the sofa with a grace Brian wasn’t expecting from the man previously passed out on that item of furniture, and when he passes Brian to head for the bedroom Brian can smell something like perfume trailing from him. “Oh, you can’t back out now, dear,” Freddie tuts as he holds onto the jamb of Brian’s door to fiddle with his boots, which is so entirely the furthest thing from Brian’s mind that he almost laughs. “This is the most luxury I’ve ever been offered in this flat.”

“Hey, I’ve definitely made you a nice cup of coffee before.”

“Darling, I hate coffee.”

“...Oh.”

Then Freddie’s laughing, quiet and honest, his head ducked a little as if to hide it. It reminds Brian of all the ways Freddie has to cover his mouth when he’s smiling and his hand itches to tip Freddie’s chin up, catch the full view of his smile, even if it’s entirely at his expense.

“So, tea then?” He asks instead of that and Freddie laughs again.

“Oh, not right now. I’m simply too tired to even think of it- _ah!_ ” Freddie’s cry of triumph saves Brian from explaining and suddenly Freddie is standing about six inches shorter as he kicks off his heels and stacks them haphazardly outside Brian’s doorway before he heads inside as if Brian’s room is his for the taking.

Brian follows, closes the door behind them.

Brian’s bedroom is small. Admittedly, it’s the larger of the two, won through the simple means of moving all his stuff straight into the bigger room and refusing to move. Roger had gotten over it quickly enough. But it’s small enough that Brian can instantly feel the presence of another person in his room, Though that might just be a case of Freddie filling up every room he enters. It’s an ability that has always left Brian in quiet awe, as if on uneven ground.

Freddie seems unaffected, picking his barefoot way across Brian’s floor to the bookshelf by the window. He selects a book at seemingly random, returns it, then his fingers alight on the record section beneath.

“I’ve not heard this,” He says, holding up an album for Brian to peruse.

Brian snorts at the sight of _Abbey Road_ between Freddie’s fingers. “Yes you have.”

“Well alright I have,” Freddie amends, no hint of embarrassment at being caught in the lie. “But I haven’t listened to it with _you._  Can I…?” The question dangles between them and Brian nods mutely

Freddie twiddles the dial of Brian’s record player, old, bought for him when he was fifteen as a much-anticipated Christmas present and treasured ever since, so that the music is barely there. But Brian’s room is small and it fills the quiet gently.

And Freddie is still for a moment, listening to the opening riffs, a hand resting on the bare skin of his chest and a finger keeping perfect time. Brian has absolutely no idea what to do with this creature he’s invited into his bedroom, but turning off the lights probably wasn’t the answer. All it does is light Freddie up in moonlight, all the interesting angles of his face, and Brian moves to quickly tidy his leftover physics texts and loose papers off the bed from where he fell asleep surrounded by them just for something to do with his hands.

By the time he’s done, Freddie’s come back to himself. His hand adjusts the volume button once more, enough that the song reaches the bed, before it slides away and follows the rest of his body across the room. There’s a slight strum of strings, Freddie’s fingers trailing their coy way across the neck of Brian’s guitar, making music everywhere he goes.

“You know, from the way Roger tells it, I half expected you to have a four poster in here,” Freddie says, standing at the side of Brian’s not-quite-a-double bed and sounding almost put out. As if Brian should really be trying harder at this whole bed thing and could he get a move on and bring out the real bed sharpish?

“The sofa’s still right outside.”

“But who needs a bed with curtains anyway?”

Brian bites down a grin. “That’s what I thought.”

There’s a beat where they’re both standing there, opposite sides of the bed, trying not to laugh at each other, and Brian’s chest feels like he’s inhaled too much oxygen and doesn't know where it can go but out through his ribs. Then the next beat comes and they’re both staring at the bed as if they aren’t a pair of fully grown adults perfectly capable of operating a mattress.

Brian has the sudden, very British, urge to offer to go and sleep on the sofa himself. Thankfully he’s stopped by Freddie throwing off a dramatic shiver and clambering noisily into bed which creates enough distraction for Brian to slip under his covers too.

Traitorously, his bed had managed to get cold once again in the time he’s been gone. He wriggles instinctively into his usual space and hits an elbow, wriggles away and nearly falls back off the mattress. Not big enough for two people, he realises for the first time, but they’re here now - Freddie squirming slightly to get comfortable, Brian holding himself rigid.

He’s never tried it but maybe he likes to sleep like a coffinned corpse.

There’s a lot of movement coming from beneath his covers and it takes Brian a panic-stricken second to realise that Freddie’s hands are preoccupied only with unbuckling the ridiculously oversized belt he’s wearing. A hard uncomfortable thing to sleep in, surely, and, Brian doesn’t think, not even particularly conducive to holding up the trousers Freddie has spray painted onto his thighs. He’d wonder at the point, if he weren’t fully aware of the way Freddie’s outfits glinted and danced and drew the eye exactly where Freddie wanted it to go.

Belt abandoned and thrown somewhere for Brian to doubtless trip over in the morning, Freddie settles. He tips onto his side and tucks his hands beneath his cheek as he looks at Brian with a steady gaze. “Why do you like this record?”

It’s not what Brian expected him to say, though he should have. Freddie and Music have a bond that could possibly even outstrip Brian and his guitar. The three of them have spent hours before, in that strange timeless and untraceable way that small talk becomes conversations becomes dragging Brian’s record player out into the living room to listen to record after record in varying periods of silent appreciation or one of them skipping the record back and back and back to listen to the exact way the guitar hums, the drums clatter, the exact _note_ that has them all hanging on the edge of the song. Brian knows the way Freddie looks when he’s captured by a song. The other boy _breathes_ music.

“I don’t know,” he admits, mirrors Freddie’s pose and finds himself getting almost comfortable along the way. “Sometimes I’m not sure I do, or maybe I don’t want to. The synthesisers….it’s not what I’m used to from them. But then,” he closes his eyes, listens to the hiss of the vinyl beneath the music, and smiles a little. “It’s still an incredible record.”

Freddie’s thoughtful hum blends with the track, wrapping up into a new sound just for Brian’s ears. He wants to get out his tape recorder, ask Freddie to make it again so he can try and find it in his guitar later, even knowing they’ll never be able to recreate it.

It’s like a holy confession, words whispered between them as the record plays. Freddie even argues with him, gentle at some points, teasing in others, and Brian finds that he loves it, has to keep bringing his voice back to a murmur, keep stopping himself from laughing too loud at one of Freddie’s uncanny impressions, burying his head in his pillow as Freddie tells him to “ _Shush, darling, shush, you’ll wake poor Roger!_ ” but laughs along anyway.

He doesn’t even notice the lightening of the sky, the grit in his eyes, the _click, click, click_ of the record player long ago reached the end of its final track, until Freddie finally yawns.

They’ve migrated slightly, Freddie sprawled on his back as much as one can in half a bed, Brian leant up on one elbow from emphatically proving a point a while back. Watching him like this, because Brian _is_ watching him, has been watching him for a while now, Brian doesn’t want to let him out of his bed.

Freddie smiles. “I think it’s officially early enough that I should be hungover by now.”

“You _definitely_ should be hungover by now.” Brian laughs as Freddie shoves at him.

“Oh, fuck that.” His laugh rocks Brian even more. Then Freddie’s hand, solid and warm, lifts from the blankets to rest on Brian’s left cheek. It’s the barest touch but somehow encompasses from Brian’s jaw to the shell of his ear, and Brian can feel every flex of Freddie’s fingertips against his skin.

“Brian,” is all Freddie says and it could be a thousand things. Could be _thank you for not leaving me to freeze in your terrible living room_ , could be _you are such a twat let me sleep_ , could be _my god the darkness really did hide what an utter birds nest your hair is untamed_ , but Brian doesn’t think it’s any of them.

Because this is the first time Freddie has said his name, at least to Brian himself. It’s always ‘darling’ or ‘dear’. Brian has once nearly choked on Freddie’s voice telling Roger to ‘ask your handsome roommate’ he wasn’t entirely sure he hadn’t been supposed to overhear. Even once there had been a scathing _‘Mr Tall’_ which hadn’t been very creative but had stunned Brian with its viciousness.

It’s stupidly simple to turn his head so his mouth grazes the heel of Freddie’s palm, slow and intentional, and his eyes don’t leave Freddie’s for a second.

Freddie inhales, quick and sharp.

He hasn’t read this wrong, he’s sure. They’ve been dancing on a wire all night, enjoying the journey as much as the somewhat inevitable conclusion, but there’s still an edge of insecurity quickening in Brian’s throat as Freddie lays still beneath him.

Then it’s a flurry of movement. Freddie has a hand gripped in Brian’s hair and tugs him down even as he surges up. Their mouths meet, already open and wanting, and Freddie tastes of wet heat and the remnants of a long-ago smoked cigarette. Any overtures to sleep are erased from Brian’s body in a blaze as he’s pulled over Freddie’s body, gangly leg finding space between Freddie’s and he catches himself on his forearm, stretched out over him.

The sudden movement huffs a breath from him and Freddie swallows it. It’s like he’s sucking the very air from Brian’s lungs, clever tongue coaxing out sounds even Brian wasn’t aware he could make, and when Brian rears back for air, Freddie follows. His mouth finds Brian’s neck and- _god._

Brian is rapidly losing control of this situation.

He becomes very aware of that fact when he feels the bastard _smiling_ against his skin.

Brian knows Freddie is experienced. He’s very aware that he is _not_. But he out and out refuses to let that be any sort of factor when he has Freddie Mercury beneath him, which means he needs to get ahold of himself quick.

But control proves itself illusive. He ducks his head and catches Freddie’s mouth again, tilting the other boy’s neck until he’s stretching up beautifully for Brian, but Brian falls prey to the sensation of Freddie’s tongue again all too quickly. He presses down, a hand curling in the thickness of Freddie’s hair, tightening until he hisses, and Brian abandons any half-formed attempts he had at a plan in favour of licking the backs of Freddie’s teeth, drawing back and nipping at his plush bottom lip.

His jaw is beginning to ache, he notices mildly somewhere in the back of his brain, and keeps going.

Freddie is a truly excellent kisser. Brian has always thought he would be, but having the proof like this is more than he knows what to do with. Freddie responds to his touch like an instrument tuned especially for him, keening little noises escaping from him and into Brian’s mouth, quieter than Brian had expected but growing louder, which only drives Brian to touch him more, kiss him harder, grind his hips against Freddie’s in a punishing roll.

Freddie’s head tips back, out of Brian’s reach, and he laughs. The sound is ragged. “Always the quiet ones,” he observes, and Brian ignores him because he’s found a spot behind Freddie’s ear that he wants to bite. “And here was me thinking I’d have a blushing virgin on my hands.”

Brian vehemently prays that his milk-pale skin won’t give him away at this point and devotes his attentions to the canvas of Freddie’s throat and to making the smaller boy stop talking.

He partially succeeds, somewhere between his decision to suck at the join of Freddie’s neck and shoulder and rolling the abused skin between his teeth, because Freddie has stopped making comments on Brian’s sexual past and begun making little moans of Brian’s name that make Brian think his own name is actually the greatest sound he could hear in the world.

He can feel Freddie thick and hard against him, intoxicatingly so, and rocks his hips again. And again, completely unthinking, chasing the electric heat that rockets up his spine. Brian himself is _achingly_ hard, cock having responded so quickly he’d be embarrassed if Freddie weren’t in the same exact situation. He can feel a damp spot forming at the front of his pyjama bottoms, only getting wetter as he and Freddie find a rhythm, slightly off-beat but increasing in tempo.

Freddie’s hands fall from his hair and find his shirt, first fisting in the back as Freddie’s leather-clad legs tighten around his thighs, then slipping beneath the soft material to lay flat palms on Brian’s back. And Brian must like that, the steady firmness of a man’s hands, the zing of notice his body makes at flesh-to-flesh contact, because his body reacts without instruction, arching into the touch. He lifts his head, not even bothering to toss curls out of the way before he crushes his mouth back to Freddie’s. If he could find a way to balance right now he’d take Freddie’s face in his hands, draw him as close as possible because closer can only mean better like this. He feels like he wants to crawl _inside_ of Freddie.

“Bri-“ is muffled into his mouth which is when he notices the tugging sensation around his arms. Freddie is trying to tug his shirt off. “Fucking- _thank you_ ,” he says when Brian moves back to allow him to drag the offending item off and launch it across the room in a ball of faded stripes.

Brian idly wonders if it’ll land in the same place as Freddie’s discarded belt, the two of them intertwined, before Freddie’s hands running up his chest pulls his attention completely.

He bites his lip on a sound he _knows_ would be embarrassing when the pad of Freddie’s thumb sweeps a curve across his nipple, sweeps again when Freddie notices the response, before pressing hard enough that Brian’s eyes roll a little.

“Your turn,” he manages, and Freddie’s dark eyes glint in the dim.

“He speaks.” An eyebrow quirks expectantly but Brian doesn’t elaborate. His eyes are caught on the severe dip of Freddie’s neckline. The way they’ve been moving - and the reminder of _that_ plus the sudden pinch Freddie gives to his nipples makes Brian’s breath catch - has dislodged the material. Freddie has a beautiful flush forming on his chest, complimenting a half-revealed nipple that Brian, full of revelations about this particular body part, is suddenly dying to fully uncover.

It’s call and response, Freddie unknowingly showing a path that Brian can follow. He wonders what it’d be like to mouth at Freddie’s chest as he did his neck.

Freddie seems to pick up pretty quickly that he’s not listening. “Well it’s no use, dear, this gorgeous bit of kit doesn’t come off over my head. You’re going to have to-” and here he breaks off to gently thrust his hips upwards, emphasising the snap of his trousers. “-put your money where your mouth is.”

Brian doesn’t know which dries his mouth more; the terrifyingly good sensations of Freddie moving even slightly under him, or the images that particular turn of phrase just rocketed into his head.

He’s nodding like some poor, desperate idiot, which he supposes isn’t too far off. His only consolation is that Freddie, as gorgeous as he looks pillowed in Brian’s bed, hair a state and lips so red, sounds out of breath as he props himself up on his elbows to watch Brian work.

His fingers find the button, then the zip of Freddie’s trousers, then his knuckle drags along the outline of Freddie’s length.

Freddie groans, laughs. “Torture,” he decides, and Brian can’t help his own laugh. “This is torture.”

“They’re your trousers.”

“And they make my arse look positively superb but if you _could_ hurry it up...”

Brian slows down. It’s part response and part necessity with how excruciatingly tight Freddie’s trousers are.

“ _Oh, you bastard_.”

“Now, now,” Brian chides, but bends to offer a consolatory kiss to the newly exposed skin of Freddie’s right hip.

Freddie hums, somewhat appeased, then his hands are joining Brian’s at his waistband and shoving roughly down and Brian laughs again as his pace is forcibly quickened.

He gets Freddie’s trousers to somewhere around mid-thigh, revealing tantalising inches of skin. And a barrier that Brian, in hindsight, really should have been expecting.

“It’s a leotard, darling.” Freddie’s voice is thick with a mix of amusement and arousal. “Which means they’re going to have to come _all_ the way off. _”_ He lifts a leg, placing his foot on the centre of Brian’s chest and making a dismissive ‘get on with it’ motion that has Brian’s jaw hanging.

Brian’s tempted to grab his leg, push it to the side until Freddie’s spread so wide he can’t move and grind their way to completion. But Brian’s never met a challenge he could turn down, and turns to the task of undressing Freddie with absolute focus.

“These,” He says through nearly gritted teeth once he’s finally, _finally_ , managed to rip them off of Freddie’s body, “are the most ridiculous trousers in the world.”

He tosses them behind his shoulder. Good riddance!

Freddie is unbothered by his ire, lithe body already shimmying his easy way out of the leotard. The harder task had clearly been given to Brian. “Oh, you haven’t seen anything yet.”

“How do you ever get out of these?”

The grin Freddie turns on him is wicked. “I find beautiful men to take them off me, obviously. You’re a rather willing species.”

The audacity of it shocks another laugh from Brian. Then Freddie is flinging the skimpy black material away from them and Brian takes him in in his entirety.

Freddie is the kind of gorgeous that will never hang in a museum, and Brian is fine with that because he wants him here in his bed, just for him. He’s smaller than Brian, pretty much everywhere, which Brian is used to with most people but with Freddie, it jars. Freddie always seems so much more than the sum of his parts that seeing him like this, stripped back to the shift of slim hips, the quiver of his abdomen and the way his teeth hold onto his smile, is disorienting, dazzling.

Was Brian really just laughing a second ago?

“Come here,” Freddie says quietly, and Brian can’t refuse him.

He stretches out over Freddie, holding himself a few inches out of reach as he leans down and slowly licks his way back into Freddie’s mouth. Freddie responds beautifully, then impatiently. He pulls Brian down, which is absolutely fantastic now that there’s one less thick leather barrier between them, but clearly Freddie still isn’t happy because then there are hands scorching their way into Brian’s pyjama bottoms, shoving at the material, and Brian groans as his dick meets hot air, meets Freddie.

Freddie gives up on the material, task as accomplished as he needs it to be, and Brian honestly couldn’t give less of a fuck about the indignity of it all, his trousers caught somewhere around mid-thigh whilst Freddie is at least decently fully nude. Because Freddie’s hands are pulling him closer and his cock is sliding against Brian’s and Brian has stars appearing before his eyes.

He drops his head into the side of Freddie’s neck, body riding out the wave of just one fantastic touch, kisses at the skin he finds there, moans softly into it when Freddie moves again under him. His mouth on Freddie’s skin reminds him of his earlier thought and he puts it into action before the roll of their hips can erase it from his brain.

He kisses twice at Freddie’s shoulder, feeling a little as if he’s marking a spot to return to later and plunder for treasure, and dips his head to find the circle of Freddie’s nipple.

“Ah-“ Freddie breaks off beneath him, hips stuttering out of the rhythm they’ve found again, as Brian drags his teeth along the sensitive flesh. Brian counts this as a win and does it again, running his teeth over the abused area afterwards before nipping once more.

He likes this, he decides. Freddie is jumping underneath him like vibrations on a fretboard and Brian controls the tempo with his mouth. He could stay here, for hours probably, if Freddie’s hands weren’t tugging at his hair with increasing desperation to get him to move up. He’s muttering Brian’s name like a curse word and it thrills him.

Before he goes, he places another kiss at the reddened flesh, then catches a glimpse of Freddie’s cock between them, sliding beside his own. Suddenly he wants to give the same treatment to the slick head, wonders at the taste and if Freddie would make the same or slightly different noises than the ones he’s making now. But that does feel rather advanced for him at this stage, so he allows himself to be yanked back up to Freddie and have his mouth bitten into with a desperation he can feel building up in his own body.

He gets a hand between them, wraps around the stunning heat of Freddie’s cock, and while he’s certain he would have been out of his depth trying to get his mouth around Freddie, he was reasonably confident he would know what to do with his hand. After all, he has a dick of his own, knows exactly what he likes, the pace punishing and the twist dry. But as soon as he holds Freddie’s cock in his hand, heavy and trembling, he knows that won’t do. The angle is different for one thing. For another, Brian didn’t adequately prepare himself for the sensation of another man’s cock in his palm, the way his fingers are damp after only one, experimental, upstroke.

It’s a heady feeling and Brian finds he can’t jerk his hand and strip Freddie the way he would himself. Instead he moves slower, almost reverential. He wasn’t expecting this sudden need to be gentle but it does something to Freddie he can’t pinpoint, until he does, and Brian really should have figured this out already. Freddie is impatient in bed, restless and bratty at times, but so far he’s responded the best when Brian has taken his time, licked to the very backs of his teeth, dragged their hips together in a slow roll, kissed him like he could do nothing else for hours. Freddie, it appears, really likes it slow. To truly test the theory, Brian thumbs Freddie’s head in a lazy sweep and feels the smaller boy’s moan as a tingle on his tongue.

He tries to keep his pace languid but it doesn’t last. Brian can feel Freddie collapsing like a dying star beneath him, and soon Freddie is thrusting hungrily into his fist, unable to keep himself to Brian’s rhythm anymore. Then a hand Brian can’t see but can _feel_ is bedecked in numerous rings closes around Brian and Brian suddenly knows that this is how this is going to end.

They’re not kissing anymore, just breathing hotly into each other’s mouths, and everything is heat. It’s racing along Brian’s skin, clawing at his gut, and he can’t believe he was ever cold because he’s burning up, Freddie’s name on his tongue.

He’s surprised that he doesn’t come first. He feels like he ought to have, but Freddie’s mouth falls open without sound as he shudders and stills and comes over Brian’s hand with a heavy gasp. His eyes snap open, which makes Brian aware that he’s had his eyes open this whole time, watching Freddie, because then they’re watching each other, and it’s a combination of that and the way Freddie’s hand tightens on his dick that Brian comes seconds after, orgasm ripped out of him in a way that feels violent and incredible.

He buries his face in Freddie’s hair until their fingers finally slow, until the last dregs of his orgasm ebbs away, until he stops shaking. When it appears as if the latter won’t be happening for a while, he lifts his head again.

Freddie is stroking his hair, is the first thing he notices in this new world.

The second is that dawn has come, and his bedroom is lit so differently in soft reds and blues that he barely recognises it.

The third is that he has cooling come on his belly, on Freddie, possibly some on his sheets and definitely some on his pyjamas.

At that last he must make a face because Freddie laughs softly at him and Brian kisses him again, because he can.

“I’ve an idea,” Freddie offers, which turns out to be removing Brian’s pyjama bottoms from him and using the already ruined material to wipe the mess from their bodies.

Brian can appreciate the thriftiness of the move, as well as how it allows both of them to stay in bed, but, “Those are my favourite pyjamas.” He amends, “Those are my _only_ pyjamas.”

Freddie is unapologetic. “And now you’ll think of me whenever you wear them.”

Brian, god help him, probably will.

They rearrange themselves, pull up the sheets that have fallen to wrap around their legs, and there’s suddenly more room in his bed for the pair of them than earlier because now they’re wrapped up together, one of Brian’s arms slung around Freddie’s back, one of Freddie’s legs between Brian’s. If Brian thought he was tired before it’s nothing compared to the exhaustion he feels settling into his bones now. Any energy Brian had had left in his body, Freddie has expertly pulled out through his dick and Brian can’t keep his eyes open.

He hopes it isn’t too embarrassing, too telling, the way his body is still fizzling out aftershocks, the heaviness of his body as he desperately tries and fails to fight sleep, the way he can’t help but nuzzle his head against Freddie’s hair before sleep takes him entirely, but it probably is.

He wakes once more that night, more accurately morning, but barely for a second. Soft lips press to his forehead and murmur something he can’t hear into his skin, and then sleep drags him back again.

When Brian finally wakes up, the sun is streaming through his window, and he is alone.

His record player skips quietly in the corner.

**Author's Note:**

> Set in a slightly alternate universe where Brian, Freddie and Roger all attend the same vaguely Imperial-College-Shaped university, Brian and Roger are flatmates. First in a series I definitely have more written for. Title for both this fic and the series from the ee cummings poem 'i like my body when it is with your body' which is the Brian Vibe for this.
> 
> I'm over on tumblr at queerbrianmay!


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